


It's You I Find

by Barrhorn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, day 5 is angst rather than fluff, day 5: violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9709238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barrhorn/pseuds/Barrhorn
Summary: For Pharmercy Appreciation week! The first one is canon compliant, but most of the others will be various AUs.





	1. Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joezette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joezette/gifts).



Sighing, Angela tucks her phone back into her pocket and heads for the roof. As much as she wishes she could be home, at least this mission doesn’t involve any communication blackouts so she can talk to Fareeha as much as they can fit into their schedules.

She’s pleased when she opens the door and finds Genji already there, perched on the ledge and looking out over the city. She’d been hoping to find him. “Would you mind some company?”

“Not at all,” Genji replies, beckoning her over. “I was waiting for you.” He reaches over to the other side and holds up a small bag. “I got you some chocolate. …Not Swiss, though.”

Angela hides her smile behind her hand, pretending to solemnly shake her head. “I suppose it’ll have to do,” she sighs, then lets him see her amusement. “Thank you. I got you some as well. Swiss. The good stuff.”

He laughs as she approaches and sits, accepting the small box that she offers him and placing it and the shopping bag between them. “Thank you. Would you care to share them with me?”

“Please,” she says, starting to lay things out between them.

“As a palate cleanser after my inferior chocolate?”

She makes a show out of picking up a square of chocolate and examining it critically. “I would never be so rude as to say that.”

Genji laughs, the sound becoming clearer as he unlatches the face plate, smiling broadly at her. “But you’ll imply it just fine.”

Taking a moment just to admire that smile, Angela feels herself relaxing into the banter. Genji had been the one who asked for the mask in the first place, wanting to hide his scarred face. She’d agreed at the time because it was one way to ease his raging anger and give him some bit of comfort, the very least she could do for him. For a long time he wouldn’t remove it around anyone, which meant all his meals were solitary ones, apart from the group. She’d ached for his isolation, but hadn’t seen any solution.

Now he often leaves it off entirely when around just the other members of Overwatch, and she’s always grateful for the glimpses of his charm. He really has changed.

_”I’m sorry,” she’d told him when he first returned to Overwatch, after a few days when they danced around each other. “Maybe I should’ve refused when they asked.”_

_“Then I wouldn’t have been able to forgive my brother, or meet Zenyatta,” Genji had said quietly. “I am grateful for what you did, though I didn’t show it at the time. I treated you very badly.”_

_“I understood,” she’d said. “I always understood.”_

“Does my gift depress you so much?” Genji is teasing as she pushes the memory away. “These are some of my favorites from my childhood.”

She picks out something at random and pops it into her mouth, discovering it to be a chocolate covered gummy. “I just don’t understand why you’d adulterate chocolate in this manner,” she says, and he laughs.

“I suppose Fareeha got you something better?”

She smiles, remembering the moment when Fareeha had revealed the box with its familiar gold font. “Läderach,” she agrees, a bit dreamily.

“You have it bad,” Genji accuses gently, pointing a square of chocolate at her.

“She’s just so…” Angela searches for a word to describe Fareeha, her caring and generosity. “Wonderful,” she settles on finally. “You know?”

Genji, much to her amusement, glances away from her and back out over the city. “…Yes, I know.”

She sees her opportunity for revenge. “And how is Zenyatta?”

He looks back at her, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Wonderful.”

She smiles at his double meaning, and their conversation turns to other things as they trade chocolate and laughter.

—

When they return from the mission late on the sixteenth, Angela stops by her room only long enough to drop off her suitcase and change into pajamas before going to Fareeha’s room. Her knock on the door goes unanswered, however, so she lets herself in - they’ve long ago exchanged keys.

Flipping on the nearest light just so Fareeha will see it when she returns, Angela makes her way straight to Fareeha’s bed and all but throws herself into it. Lying on her stomach, she buries her face into the pillow and breathes, feeling herself relax into the sheets. She hates the travel days; she feels exhausted from both the mission and the long day, but also restless after having been cooped up in a transport for hours on end.

Even so, it’s nice to take a moment to just be here, to be in a familiar bed that smells like Overwatch’s detergent and Fareeha’s shampoo. She’s traveled so much after she first left Switzerland that there’s no real place for her to call home. A lot of her nights have been spent in hotel rooms and watchpoints and army cots in refugee camps. To have a place like this, somewhere that is comforting just by being itself, is a gift that she is grateful for.

It’s not lost on her that this is Fareeha’s room rather than her own, but it’s only on technicality. She spends more time here than there anyway.

She hears the footsteps first, smiling at their slight pause outside the door, at the quiet way the door swings open.

“Angela?” Fareeha’s voice is soft, obviously not sure if she’s awake or not, and Angela simply raises a hand in greeting. When she hears Fareeha’s laughter and those footsteps coming closer, she finally rolls onto her back, reaching out with a smile. “Welcome back,” Fareeha says, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning down to kiss her.

“Missed you,” Angela murmurs into the small space between them after.

“Missed you too,” Fareeha says, then pinches the oversized t-shirt that Angela is wearing, tugging it playfully. “I take it we’re not going for a walk then?” That’s Angela’s usual routine on these sorts of evenings: a quiet stroll around the base, something that doesn’t take much energy but lets her just move freely.

Angela shakes her head, just a slow rock from side to side, feeling vaguely dissatisfied by the idea.

“Still want to do something?”

She nods but shrugs a shoulder, nothing she can think of sounding particularly appealing.

Fareeha lips curve into a smile. “You’re cute when you’re bored,” she teases, and Angela wants to glare at her for that - when is Angela Ziegler, overachiever extraordinaire, ever bored? - but there’s a certain truth to it that she simply can’t dispute. Instead she lets herself pout, something she knows Fareeha finds irresistible, something she usually doesn’t take advantage of.

And even though the knowing glint in Fareeha’s eyes clearly shows she’s aware of the manipulation, she still kisses Angela again, cupping her face with one warm hand, her thumb tracing across her cheek. She pulls back, laughing softly at Angela’s pleased smirk, before standing and offering Angela her hand. “I happen to know we have the ingredients to make cookies,” she says. “Want to do some baking?”

Actually, that sounds perfect. Angela’s never been a cook; she just never really had time to learn or practice. And she doesn’t have the talent that Fareeha has, able to taste whatever she’s making and know what she has to add or do to make it come out correctly. But baking is much more her style, even if it’s something she doesn’t do much: follow the recipe, do exactly what it says, get something delicious. And it does feel right for the situation. A light amount of activity that will actually accomplish something, but nothing that she has to think about too much or change out of her pajamas for.

That last one feels especially important right now.

“Yes please,” she says, taking Fareeha’s hand and pulling herself up off the bed, taking a moment to wrap her arms around her in a hug that’s quickly reciprocated. “But this is why everyone thinks we’re the moms, you know. My first night back and we’re making cookies.”

“That implies we’re sharing,” Fareeha murmurs next to her ear.

“Of course we’re sharing.”

“ _You_ can share.” Fareeha twists away from Angela’s playful swat at her arm with a grin.

Angela walks past her and opens the door, gesturing Fareeha into the hallway. “Come on. You can fill me in on everything I missed.” She notices the way Fareeha’s lips twitch, the subtle shake of her shoulders as she follows her out. “…What?”

“Well,” Fareeha drawls the word in a way that Angela immediately recognizes. “She’s a bit younger than you, very strong, very attract-“

Angela bumps her with a shoulder as they walk down toward the kitchen. “Other than you, you goof,” she scolds, and Fareeha laughs. Angela’s smiling as well, feeling lighter than she has since she walked off the transport. It’s good to be home.


	2. 2. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, the same basic premise of 'in this life and the next': werewolf Fareeha and second sighted Angela.

The award dinner had started off well enough, Fareeha guesses, leaning back in the uncomfortable office chair. She’d always disliked these sorts of events, getting all dressed up and congratulating each other on doing their jobs. At least this had been for the whole police force; they’d once held a much smaller event for just Fareeha herself, and she’d spent the whole time wanting to hide. Or wishing some purse snatcher would come through so she could have a good old fashioned foot chase away from all the people who apparently just wanted to shake her hand and make small talk.

And Fareeha has never been good at small talk.

To make matters even worse, tonight is the full moon. And while the phases of the moon don’t dictate her shapeshifting (chalk up another thing the legends get wrong, Fareeha thinks with a smirk, playing with a bit of silver braid on her uniform), there is a certain… restlessness that comes with the full moon. An itchiness to her skin that only goes away when she shifts. But no, the others (mostly human, mostly unknowing of her other status) expected her to show up as a human. 

Wolves wouldn’t have to make small talk either, she thinks, and then laughs at the thought.

The saving grace of the evening had been Angela, who had gotten the night off to come with her, wearing a red dress that showed an absolutely illegal amount of leg (she’d said as much to Angela, who’d laughed and told her to recite the relevant law, chapter and verse, in this smoky tone that had made Fareeha’s heartbeat triple), earrings occasionally flashing through the waves of golden hair that Angela let fall to her shoulders.

Angela, who’d slipped an arm through Fareeha’s and chatted easily with everyone like they were old friends, letting Fareeha nod or make a comment when she pleased (or felt guilty enough for letting Angela carry most of the burden of conversation). Angela, who’d put a quiet hand on her back when Fareeha’s temper started to flare, the itchiness in her skin making her roll her shoulders and fight back a snarl. Angela, who had leaned over and whispered that she could take ill at any moment so that Fareeha would have an excuse to leave.

Fareeha smiles, remembering that moment, with Angela’s hand on her thigh under the table and her soft breath against her ear. Her presence had been soothing, the simple thoughtfulness of her offer enough that Fareeha was sure they’d make it through the whole evening.

Until Angela had frowned thoughtfully in the direction of one table and one of the city councilmen that sat there. “He’s looking a little pale, don’t you think?” she’d said, fingers tapping against her temple in a way that seemed thoughtful but was a signal to Fareeha that she saw something there. Her words caught the attention of several other people at their table, who turned and looked.

“He seems alright to me,” Lena had said, frowning slightly, then had turned to Angela with a smile. “But that’s why I’m not a surgeon and instead stuck with this blockhead.” She’d grinned outright at Fareeha, who’d simply raised an eyebrow at her.

“Big talk coming from the one who leapt a fence right into a thorn bush,” she’d shot back.

“I didn’t know it was there. But you have to keep on winning awards even though you hate coming to these shindigs.”

Fareeha had just been about to concede the point when a crash from nearby made them both jump out of their seats and turn, the councilman now collapsed on the floor with a crowd growing around them.

“Call the ambulance,” Angela had said briskly, already moving forward while Fareeha was still processing the scene. “Excuse me!” she’d called, shoving her way through the people milling about. “I’m a doctor, let me through!”

Which was how Fareeha had wound up watching Angela climb into the back of an ambulance with several EMTs and the man now on a stretcher. How Fareeha had ended up watching the ambulance drive away, sirens blaring, alone but for one other woman, her fingers twisting nervously together. “I’m… sorry,” she’d tried, hesitantly, hating the lost look in the stranger’s eyes. “Is he… are you with him?”

“He’s my husband,” the lady had said, still not looking away until the ambulance had turned the corner.

“Would you like me to drive you to the hospital?”

“Oh!” The woman had looked at her then. “That would- But I don’t even know where they’re going-“

Fareeha had smiled. “Well, since that was my wife that ran off with your husband, they’re definitely going to East Mercy. That’s where she works.”

Relief had washed over the woman’s face. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Not at all,” Fareeha had reassured her, gesturing her towards the section of parking lot where her car was parked. “A pleasure to serve.”

The woman had smiled only wanly at Fareeha’s quoting of one of the police force’s mottos, but Fareeha counted it a success anyway.

So now here she is, stashed away in Angela’s office after the doctor had come out to the waiting room with a weary smile and the welcome news that the councilman would be just fine.

Angela reappears quickly, draping her arms around Fareeha’s neck as the officer stands. “Please take me home?” she murmurs. “Though I’m sorry about your dinner.”

“I’m not,” Fareeha answers quickly. “I only wish we’d had you fake sick instead of someone actually falling ill.”

Angela only hums a response, a measure of her exhaustion, and Fareeha quickly leads her out of the hospital, her uniform and glare helping to pave the way through staff that thought maybe they could just ask the doctor one small question, just while she’s here-

It’s when they get home and Angela almost stumbles while taking off her shoes that Fareeha starts to get concerned. “Maybe you should sleep in the bed tonight?” she offers, but Angela just looks at her.

“Are you sleeping in bed tonight?”

For a minute, Fareeha considers it, and Angela must see her struggle with herself, as her expression softens and she once again curls her arms around Fareeha, this time around her waist, laying her head against Fareeha’s shoulder. “Make yourself happy. I always sleep better with you, no matter where it is.”

That’s enough for Fareeha. “Mattress then,” she says, and Angela kisses her cheek before slowly drawing away.

And really, it is silly, Fareeha knows. But the truth is this: she hates being in the bed in wolf form. Well, she likes it, likes how comfortable it is, but she hates getting fur in the covers. (“But it’s your fur,” Angela had pointed out early on, something that Fareeha still doesn’t have a good answer to.) Instead, on the full moon, she sleeps on an air mattress in the main room of their apartment, in full view of the moonlight that shines in from the glass balcony door. Angela quickly switched to sleeping with her, curled up with her fingers in Fareeha’s fur, a thin blanket used only on these nights thrown over them.

So as Angela changes clothes, Fareeha changes forms, stretching out in relief as the damned itching finally stops bothering her. 

They’d blown up the mattress (which they keep around “for guests”) earlier, and Fareeha flops onto it, a drowsy sort of contentment settling over her. It’s Angela’s laughter from the bedroom that pricks her ears, makes her swivel to watch Angela come through the door with a smile.

“Here.” She holds out her phone so that Fareeha can see the screen, can read the text displayed there:

_Lena: Tell the blockhead that this is what she gets for ditching us and leaving me to accept her award for her without warning_

The attached picture is of the award itself, a piece of paper taped over the base which reads: Lena Oxton, the best bloody partner on the force.

Fareeha huffs her own laughter, putting her head on her front paws as Angela lies next to her, settling the blanket over them both.

“I’m going to tell her that she deserves it,” Angela murmurs softly, long fingers typing away before she locks the phone and puts it aside.

She falls asleep quickly, obviously worn out from the emergency surgery. Really, she could’ve let one of the on call surgeons handle it, Fareeha thinks affectionately, but that’s one of the things that makes her who she is.

Fareeha stays up a bit longer, listening to Angela’s slow, even breathing, looking out through the balcony door over the city and the people that they both love.


	3. 3. Flowers

She kneels, fingertips oh so lightly brushing the bright yellow petals of a flower before bracing into the earth, sinking into the soft soil. Fareeha smiles at the sensation, picking up a pinch of dirt, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. A good thing her crew has already dispersed; they would have way too much fun watching their captain, fanatical about cleanliness, play in the dirt.

Or perhaps not. They’d all been on the same ship for the past six months, so they all know the need to reconnect with the solid earth once they return to land. The cheerful color of the flower, the soft scents of it and all of its companions in this garden, the feeling of the steady ground under her feet, all of these are a welcome back. Fareeha loves the sea, the sting of saltwater and the whip of its winds, the challenge of thriving where no human is meant to truly live.

But still it’s a wonderful thing to be on land again, and Fareeha’s spent the past few hours wandering the town rather than going home, just to keep feeling the earth beneath her feet, just to keep seeing things that aren’t waves all the way to the horizon, just to hear birds and traffic and anything that isn’t just her crew calling back and forth, no matter how much she loves them.

“Excuse me? Are you all right?”

Fareeha looks up and sees a woman standing on the walkway, a slight frown on her face, blue eyes crinkled in concern. She’s obviously just left the house, and Fareeha suddenly remembers that she’s crouched in front of someone else’s residence.

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry for bothering you,” she says, the woman’s eyes widening a little as Fareeha stands to her full height, the other woman now having to tip her head back slightly to meet her eyes. “I was just admiring your garden.”

“Well, that’s what it’s there for,” the woman says with a smile, tucking some hair behind her ear as Fareeha desperately tries to remember if she’s seen her before.

She decides that she hasn’t - couldn’t have and not remembered - and extends a hand. “Fareeha Amari. Just got back from six months out.”

“Nice to meet you. Angela Ziegler,” she responds. Her grip is firm and sure, her hand slightly rough in a way that Fareeha can’t place, though not nearly as callused as her own. “I must’ve arrived soon after you left. I joined the clinic here.”

“Your garden is beautiful for only a few months worth of work.”

Angela laughs, mischief glimmering in her eyes. “It’s relaxing. And I find it’s a good way to meet people.”

Fareeha grins, about to respond when she’s cut off by a shout from across the street.

“Hey, Captain!”

She turns to see Lena running towards her, arm waving madly. Instinctively Fareeha had to repress a shout at the sight - running around like a madman was how Lena had injured herself on the last trip - but the sight of her moving so easily and without pain makes her shoulders straighten and a fond smile spread across her lips. “Just saw the Raptora in the harbor - how’d it go? Hope that new guy didn’t work out so I get my spot back and-“ Lena stops and stares when she draws closer and sees Angela standing there, previously hidden behind Fareeha. Then she laughs, hands propped on her hips as she cackles. “Oh man, not even back for a day and you’ve found the prettiest woman in town. Careful Doc,” Lena continues with a wink, “sailors have a bad reputation for a reason, you know!”

Fareeha looks to Angela, who is watching Lena with her lips pressed together despite the color riding high in her cheeks. “If I survived putting you back together,” she says tartly, “I’m sure I can handle whatever… the captain here throws my way.” The slight pause only helps emphasize the twist Angela puts on her title, and Fareeha bites the inside of her cheek to not smile.

“I’m going to tell Emily about that ‘prettiest woman’ comment,” she threatens instead, and Lena’s eyes widen in horror.

“No no no no! I mean, no offense Doc, but Emily’s-“ Lena looks down at her watch, then yelps. “Emily’s gonna kill me; I’m late. Bye! Captain, I want to hear all about it later!” she calls over her shoulder as she dashes away, Fareeha still trying to restrain the urge to yell at her for running without looking.

Sighing, she looks back at Angela, meeting her gaze before allowing her eyes to wander slightly more, taking in the strands of hair tugged out of her ponytail by the wind, the shape of her face, the color of her lips-

She catches Angela doing the same to her, and they share a knowing smile, the warmth between them that of two people suddenly in on a secret, and then they are both laughing at the utter absurdity of the situation.

“I think,” Fareeha finally manages, “that for once I am grateful for Lena’s extreme lack of tact.”

“I suppose I’m not objecting,” Angela concedes.

They share another smile before Fareeha gently excuses herself to continue her walk of the town, glancing back once to see Angela still among the flowers, offering a small wave when she sees Fareeha turn.

The earth feels welcoming under her feet. Fareeha feels like she could walk for miles.


	4. 4. Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically an XCOM crossover, but no knowledge of that game/universe required.

When the door opens behind her, Angela doesn’t bother to turn and look. Really, it could be any number of people - she shares this room with three others - but she knows who it is anyway. She’s constantly listening for those distinctive footsteps, waiting for them way too much to not recognize them now. She wonders what Fareeha is thinking as the door latches shut, what she sees in Angela’s shoulders set in her lab coat, her hair tied back into a messy bun.

She wonders how on earth they’re going to talk about this. “They asked you,” she starts, voice quiet, eyes fixed on the bunk beds in front of her.

“Yes,” Fareeha answers, footsteps drawing closer.

“And you said yes.” It’s not a question. She hasn’t heard, doesn’t know for certain, but she knows who Fareeha is, and so knows what her answer must have been.

Fareeha’s voice is too calm for her liking. “I did.”

She breathes in slowly, through her nose, then exhales just as softly through her mouth, trying to fight back the sick feeling of fear and worry that threatens her defenses. “Of course you did,” she says, almost to herself, and finally turns, looking up into the calm, steady eyes of the soldier.

“I am the most logical candidate,” Fareeha tells her before reaching out, cupping Angela’s cheek with her prosthetic fingers, both a comfort and a reminder of that suitability. The fledging MEC exoskeleton program requires the pilot to have all prosthetic limbs, and Fareeha already has three, having lost both legs and her left arm in one of the very first alien attacks on their world. Of all of the soldiers they could ask to be the first MEC pilot, Fareeha has the least to lose, the shortest time of acclimation to the prosthetics before she can be sent into the field.

It’s still a sacrifice, however.

Angela takes the opportunity to lean into the touch, turning her face into it so she can feel the minute twitch of Fareeha’s fingers as her breath ghosts over them. They’re usually so strict with themselves about publicly showing affection (even if they are alone for now, that’s not to say one of their roommates won’t come barging in) that she appreciates this moment even more. They may be the worst kept secret on base, but the war they’re fighting is too important to let anything compromise the team or the mission.

Something that Angela is having a hard time remembering right now.

“I told them that with more research we could find a way to make the MEC suits work without having to amputate. If they’d just give me a little more time!“ The words leave her in a rush, mind spinning through all the possibilities that suddenly seem much more urgent when the council is going through with her idea before she’s truly done refining it.

“Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

It’s said calmly, matter of factly, but Angela straightens, leaving behind the comfort of Fareeha’s touch as anger blazes through her. “Along with staff, resources, tools, _common sense-_ ”

“Angela.” Fareeha’s voice is gentle, her eyes watching her closely after the uncharacteristic outburst. “What’s wrong?”

She wants to laugh. She wants to throw her arms out, to encompass everything around them. What’s wrong? They’ve been drafted into a secret military force to stop an alien invasion; they live in an underground bunker; they’re in a constant race to simply keep up with alien technology so that they don’t lose the Earth; she has to watch on a screen as they send soldiers out against new and unexpected threats, has to try and keep them all alive against impossible odds.

She wants to drag Fareeha into one of the meetings of the MEC project and have her listen to the others discuss potential repercussions. How the aliens will see the MEC as a sign of their growing resistance, of their ability to innovate and adapt and how that will make the pilot a priority target. Discussions about all the worst case scenarios: if the MEC gets disabled, if it gets pinned, how many self rescue options can they actually fit in among the weapons and targeting systems? And everyone in the room saying “the MEC soldier this” or “the pilot that” and how her mind is just constantly chanting Fareeha’s name because Angela knows who will be trusted with the intense resource demand that is the suit, knows who will accept the assignment without hesitation, despite the risks and the costs.

What she does instead is step forward and hide her face in the crook of Fareeha’s neck, feeling arms embrace her, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I keep picturing you out there, in danger,” she says. “I can’t detach this time. It was my idea, and yet it all falls on you - I hate that.” It’s not about Fareeha: genuine hero, decorated by the Egyptian military and XCOM alike, with a superior sense of strategy and tactics. It’s that Angela’s program is asking her to sacrifice so much, while Angela herself is forbidden from going into the field. It’s the inherent unfairness - the injustice - of it.

Fareeha presses a kiss to her head, the hand from her back moving to stroke through her hair. Her silence showing that she can, as ever, sense that Angela is still holding back.

She doesn’t know how to explain it. How to explain a lifetime spent working single-mindedly toward her goals. She’d decided to become a doctor very young, and when the other children were playing, Angela was studying. As they grew up, it was always the same: teenagers going on dates to the movies while she wrote articles. College students fretting over what major to pick while she was receiving her medical license. Young doctors barely making it through a shift while she was experimenting on herself, always on herself.

“I always thought,” she starts, hesitantly, her hands grasping Fareeha’s shirt. At this point she really doesn’t care if someone sees them. “Whatever sacrifice I had to make would be worth it, if I could make the world a little better. I would give everything I had for that opportunity. Now the world is literally on the line, and, for the first time, I can’t say that anymore.” Her hands tighten on Fareeha even as she pulls back slightly to meet her eyes. “If it came down to you versus the world… I would be very tempted to say ‘damn the world’.”

Fareeha nods with an understanding that Angela almost wishes she didn’t have. “But you wouldn’t,” she says confidently. It’s supposed to be a reassurance - that Angela would do the right thing, and Fareeha’s unshakeable faith in her has been something that Angela has leaned on in the past few chaotic months.

Still, hearing the truth spoken so plainly breaks the dam inside her. Even knowing it’s the right thing, even knowing that Fareeha would expect nothing less from her, it still _hurts_ , still a loss that she is unwilling to suffer. “I wouldn’t,” she confirms, feeling her eyes begin to sting as she fights back the tears. “I wouldn’t.”

Arms sweep her tight against Fareeha’s chest, and Angela finds herself being carried backward, until Fareeha seats them both on the lower bunk, murmuring soft things to her. Things about how strong Angela is to be able to endure seeing Fareeha out in the field when Fareeha is sure she couldn’t handle the reverse situation. How good she is, how big her heart is, how much Fareeha loves her. None of it, Angela notices, is a promise to be safe, a reassurance that they will get through this alive.

The omission comforts rather than worries, and Angela chokes back another surge of tears as she realizes it.

Eventually Fareeha’s words give way to a quiet hum, to a tune that that Angela doesn’t recognize. She wishes she could give herself over to the comfort and the warmth, to let go enough to fall asleep like this. But she doesn’t have the time to give, and when her communicator crackles to life with an urgent call to the labs, she pulls away reluctantly. Fareeha's fingers chase away the last remnants of her tears, and Angela catches her right hand in her own, twining their fingers together. 

“When’s the procedure?” she asks. They’d had enough sense not to ask her to perform it, at least.

“Tomorrow.”

Her heart clenches, wondering if the commander knows something that they don’t, pushing this through so quickly. “Whatever I can do for you, just tell me.”

“Just be there when I wake up.”

“Of course.”


	5. 5. Fairy Tale AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some violence in this one, but nothing super graphic.

She breathes onto the mirror, letting the glass fog over. Air and water: life.

“Show me the one who will kill me,” she commands, and the fog clears slowly, revealing an image in the mirror that is not her reflection.

Her first reaction to her murderer should not be how gorgeous she is. But that’s exactly what the woman in the mirror is: beautiful. A strong jaw and steady eyes, a tattoo curling gently under one of them. Gold ornaments in black hair fall toward broad shoulders that easily carry the weight of her armor.

Well, if Angela is going to die, at least it will be to one who looks the part of the hero.

Not that that should be important either. But Angela, like all witches, knows the power of appearance. Illusion is a powerful school of magic, and one’s own appearance, properly prepared, could be a sweet illusion on its own, letting others fool themselves based on their own biases. So many townsfolk who never suspected that the pretty blonde was anything more than what she seemed.

So this woman intrigues her. So proud and upright, so righteous. Such a perfect casting of a hero.

What then is she hiding?

—

It’s easy - disgustingly so - to ingratiate herself with the woman. When she knows what road the warrior is traveling, she flies ahead of her one night and curls up against a tree, wrapped in a single cloak, for all the world a weary traveler who has stopped for a rest. But she does not sleep, and so she knows exactly when the woman comes across her, hears the footsteps approach and the clank of armor and sword.

Angela expects a question, a quiet greeting, perhaps even a hand gently shaking her shoulder. What she gets instead is the sound of movement, of a pack being gone through, of steel against flint.

That last one, along with the smell of fire, confuses and worries her. Did she underestimate that badly? Does the woman know who she is after all, and is preparing something against her?

She must do something to alert the other that she’s awake. Flutter her eyelids trying not to look, or shift as she thinks. She hears quiet laughter, warm and inviting.

“I figured that might wake you. The promise of breakfast gets most people going.”

Angela raises her head slowly, with a wince from the way it’s been bent forward for most of the night. “I’m…sorry?” she says, not having to feign her surprise at seeing the small campfire going in front of her, a pot placed nearby.

The woman chuckles, sitting easily on the ground in her armor, sword unstrapped from her side but near enough to hand. “Breakfast,” she repeats, gesturing to the pot. “You don’t have a pack or anything, and it was a cold night.”

“I… thank you.” She has no idea what to say. Is this something that a person would normally do? Or is it a knightly honor sort of thing? She hesitates to say more, but the woman seems not to mind, tending to the pot without seeming to pay any attention to what Angela is or isn’t doing. It’s not long until she offers Angela a cup.

“Would you like some coffee?”

Wondering what on earth that is, Angela accepts it with a smile, wondering if she dares use a spark of magic to see what’s there. But no, better not to reveal that just yet, and she can probably trust this woman this much. What hero, upon finding their target, would decide that poison is the way to go?

What sort of foolish witch would fall for that?

She finds herself taking a sip before she really can overthink it, and her eyes widen at the bitter taste that covers her tongue.

She loves coffee.

The knight, upon seeing her expression, laughs. “That’s how I feel after my first cup each morning too. I’m Fareeha. What’s your name?”

“Angela.” There’s a question she has an easy answer to, at least. This is not the first time she’s used this sort of deception. She closes her eyes as she sips the wonderful liquid in the mug, letting the story filter back through her mind, ready for use. Just enough truth to be believable; it’s never failed her before.

“It’s not very safe for lone travelers,” Fareeha observes. “Even less so when you’re not prepared.”

Angela looks away, glancing down into the cup as if considering what she wants to say, how much to reveal. Another familiar part of the charade. “I travel a lot,” she says. “Move from town to town, trading for what I need. I do alright.”

Gesturing to the empty space around her, Fareeha asks, “And what do you trade?” If this is an interrogation, it’s a very gentle one. Most likely the knight is just trying to ferry out if she is an intruder, a threat, or if she’s exactly what she appears.

Angela chews on her bottom lip for the appearance - the illusion - of a woman deciding if she can trust another, glancing again at the armor and the sword and finally the tattoo. Then relents, as if she finds all these things a comfort. “I have… some magic. I am skilled at healing. A talent that people appreciate, even if they don’t like where it comes from.” It would explain why she never quite needs for anything but also why she does not stay in one place for long; rare is the person who truly accepts a magic user, nonexistent is the village that would want one in its midst.

Fareeha softens and nods. “Much like myself. It’s nice to have a knight around when trouble stirs, but otherwise I’m an inconvenient reminder of the things people would rather not exist at all.”

Angela allows herself a smile. “Something we have in common then.”

“Then you must let me accompany you to the next town,” Fareeha says suddenly.

“You’ve already done me one kindness,” Angela objects. “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“You aren’t. As I said, I’m wandering myself.”

She knows she doesn’t reveal how pleased she is at the opening, a frown crossing her features as she considers the woman in front of her. “I thought all the knights had orders.”

“I do,” Fareeha answers, but now she is the one looking away, her brow furrowed. “But it is not important right now.”

Angela’s almost offended, almost relieved. Then again, this knight hasn’t shown much that she needs to be afraid of. What would this person that she is pretending to be do, she wonders, allowing herself to relax into the story she’s told, and decides that this woman would be grateful for a little company, a little extra protection. “Well, if you’re certain…”

“I am,” Fareeha says firmly, and the conversation ends there. They clean up together, covering the fire with dirt and making sure that no embers remain before heading down the road. Fareeha does not seem inclined to talk, but with some gentle prompting Angela soon has them trading stories. Fareeha’s clever (though her humor could be improved), she’s attentive, she’s humble, she’s-

Exactly what she appears to be?

No, that can’t be possible.

Still, they make the next town without Angela learning anything of use, and Fareeha makes sure that no one bothers her as Angela sets a farmer’s leg and eases a few cases of illness. As soon as the locals start murmuring more appreciation than veiled threats, however, Fareeha leaves to follow a message runner that is warning of monsters from the west. Angela finishes with the townsfolk and leaves in a different direction, and once she is past a hill and out of sight, she vanishes back to her home.

She seizes the mirror and breathes on it. “Show me Fareeha,” she demands, and the glass reveals a battle with Fareeha in the center of it, wielding her sword with grace and strength. She bashes aside a monster’s defenses with her shield before running it through, then turns in one smooth motion to slash another across the wing, felling it from the sky. Her eyes are closed against the blood that sprays across her face, mouth set in a determined line. This is not the woman who laughed as she made coffee for a sleeping stranger. This is a warrior, one who pushes forward almost recklessly, who turns the tide of monsters with each sweep and thrust. Who stands there, chest heaving, when the tide breaks and the monsters retreats, who does not join in the shouting and cheering with the men at arms behind her.

Angela lets the image fade out, suddenly very glad that she was able to witness it. Fareeha _is_ dangerous after all.

—

Logic would dictate that she stay far away from the woman fated to kill her. But Angela knows that logic is not the way one deals with prophecy. It is a saying that those who seek to avoid their fates only bring it faster upon their heads, and so Angela does not build walls, does not lay traps, does not hide away.

Angela watches in her mirror. Angela finds days when she can slip away, can “accidentally” run into Fareeha on their travels. She spends a few hours with her, trying to learn more, trying to find a weakness.

She thinks she’s found it when she comes across Fareeha injured, which she insists on treating. “And if this had gotten infected it could’ve killed you,” she’s scolding, and Fareeha laughs unexpectedly, despite the way it pulls on the slash in her side.

“I will not die to this,” she says, so certain that Angela immediately latches onto it.

“Even the strongest knight can be taken down by illness,” she insists, and Fareeha shakes her head.

“When you become a knight, the king has a prophecy spoken for you. I will take down a witch, though I will also be destroyed in doing so.” Fareeha recites the words through gritted teeth, and Angela cannot tell if it is pain or something else that makes her jaw clench so tightly.

She considers as she replaces the bandage with a clean one. “Now I understand why you wander,” she says. “Rather than rushing off to die.” The knight is a coward, she thinks. And so perhaps she has a way out after all.

But Fareeha smiles, though tightly. “While I have no desire to die,” she says, “it is something that you know may happen when you join the service. And if I cannot die to anything else, then I can do so much more for the towns around here. Bandits, monsters, whatever- I can make a difference to them by doing all those things. Besides,” and here her eyes find Angela’s, watch her with intensity, daring her to disagree. “I haven’t heard of a witch bothering anyone. There’s no reason to harm her if she’s doing nothing wrong.”

And Angela finds she can do nothing more than meet that gaze, before Fareeha’s wince makes her realize how her hands have tightened around her arm. She releases her quickly, stepping back, shaken. “Being who I am, I cannot object to that. You are one of the few who has never troubled me about my talents.”

The stubborn anger recedes from Fareeha’s eyes, and she sighs. “You’re right. I’m just so used to people telling me that I must do my duty simply because someone said it was so. Even if they can see the future.”

Angela nods. “Just be safe,” she says. “I can’t always be around to patch you up.”

“You could be,” Fareeha offers. “Wander with me for a little while. I could certainly use the help.” She rolls her shoulder, showing off the clean bandage as if Angela could’ve forgotten it in the past few minutes.

“I will… I will think about it,” she stutters, caught off guard. She flees before Fareeha can say anything more, and she’s quietly relieved when another runner fetches Fareeha that evening while Angela is busy with a childbirth.

She goes back home again that evening and watches Fareeha in the mirror, sighing when she comes through the battle unscathed.

She sleeps that night and dreams of a sword sliding between her ribs, seeking out her heart.

—

Angela stays away for a while after that, attending to her own matters and only watching Fareeha through the mirror. She doesn’t notice when she traces Fareeha’s face with a fingernail, or when she starts watching far past the point when any useful information could be gained.

She first realizes her problem when Fareeha advances too far in one battle, lets herself become surrounded, cut off from the other fighters. She notices what Fareeha does not, the monster behind her with a clear shot, its sharp little dagger poised to cut deep, too deep. She’s shouting before she realizes it, a command and not a warning, and lightning leaps from the clear sky, ignoring the tall woman with her metal armor and longsword and instead striking the goblin that threatens her.

Dismissing the image quickly, Angela backs away from the mirror, hand covering her mouth. She realizes that she’s trembling and sinks into a chair, holding her head in her hands.

Fareeha trusted the prophecy that she wouldn’t die. And Fate had used Angela to keep that true this day. The same witch that will one day be her downfall.

—

She finds Fareeha a few days later. “I’m sorry about not giving you an answer last time,” she says as Fareeha smiles a welcome. “May I join you for awhile?”

—

They make a great team.

—

The thing about Fareeha is that she is, in the end, exactly as she appears. She is kind and generous with the villagers that they meet. She is strong and brave in battle. She is fierce in her protectiveness, and often shields Angela from the anger and mistrust of others.

She is honest and true, and Angela has lied from the start, about almost everything. Days will go by without Fareeha even seeming to consider the witch she’s only heard of in prophecy, and Angela drowns in the certain knowledge of their entwined fates.

It is this need to connect, to share, to be honest for once that Angela will blame when she finally loses control and pulls Fareeha into a kiss one night at their campsite. Guiding Fareeha over to her bedroll and pulling her down is Angela’s way of shouting defiance at Fate. The night is lightning from the blue: protection, devotion, love.

She wakes in the morning and Fareeha is sitting beside her, two cups of coffee side by side, steaming gently in the morning air.

“So what do we do now, witch?” she asks softly, and Angela freezes.

She does not ask how, or how long. She takes her cup and drinks the strong, bitter liquid. “We keep going north, like we planned,” she says. That had been their plan for the past week, to swing through some of the border villages to see how well prepared they were for winter.

She hopes it is still enough.

Fareeha is watching her, and finally nods. “Then that is what we will do.”

They don’t discuss it for the rest of the day, the same way that Angela doesn’t ask before she sets up her bedroll next to Fareeha’s, the same way Fareeha doesn’t question it.

Angela falls asleep listening to Fareeha’s heartbeat, steady and strong and unshakeable. Like Fareeha.

Like Fate.


	6. 6. Wedding

“Angela,” she calls softly. And then waits.

And waits.

The doctor is at her desk, typing frantically, the same position she’d been in when Fareeha had last checked on her, six hours ago. Fareeha had slept after Angela’s brief smile of acknowledgement; she’s willing to bet that Angela did not.

Still she waits, knowing that Angela hates to be interrupted, taking the opportunity to admire the woman before her. Her dedication and perseverance are outstanding, even if, for Angela’s own sake, Fareeha wishes she was slightly less diligent at times. But there’s also the graceful way her long fingers move across the keyboard and the way her hair falls across her face. There’s also the way Angela lights up when she sees Fareeha, or the low warmth of her voice when they speak.

Really, Fareeha is going to have to bite the bullet and ask her to dinner soon, or Angela just might beat her to it.

Finally Angela pauses with a sigh, her eyes closed as her hands rest on the desk for a moment longer, before she swivels her chair toward the door and Fareeha.

Fareeha offers her the mug she’s been holding, and Angela takes it in both hands, her murmured “Mein Gott” almost lost in the depths of the cup as she brings it to her mouth, inhaling deeply before sipping the coffee. Letting her shoulders relax, Angela leans back in the chair, mug clasped possessively to her chest. “Marry me.”

The quiet, almost reverent words pull a laugh from Fareeha and stir a giddiness in her chest. Maybe she really does have to worry about Angela asking about dinner first. “You only want me to bring you coffee every morning,” she accuses.

Angela smiles secretively over the lip of the mug. “Maybe,” she confesses. “It’d certainly be a nice perk.”

“I don’t marry before the first date,” she teases.

“And when is that?”

“Tuesday?”

Angela smiles again, more openly, more brightly. “Tuesday works for me. Thank you for the coffee, Fareeha.”

It feels like she’s floating as she returns to her room.

—

“Fareeha? I could use your assistance with something.”

Before anyone else in the room can react, Fareeha is off of the couch and heading for the door, glad for the excuse to leave. The tension is rising between Ana and Jack despite her best efforts, and she doesn’t want to get pulled into the middle of it again. If Jack wants to use her as an excuse (“look what your disappearance did to Fareeha”) or Ana wants her as a defense (“if Fareeha can forgive me, why can’t you?”), then they may do so without her sitting right there, like she’s a child again.

Fortunately Angela is important enough to the team that no one can really deny her such a request, so even though Fareeha can feel two gazes weighing heavily between her shoulders as she walks out the door, there’s no move made to stop her. She breathes a sigh of relief as they start to walk away, hoping that the two old friends will talk more honestly without a witness. “Thanks,” she says, glancing over at Angela as they begin to walk toward the lab. “What did you need me for?”

With a smile, Angela laces her fingers through Fareeha’s. “Nothing, actually. I just thought I could come to your rescue for once.”

The surge of gratitude takes her by surprise, enough that she doesn’t automatically object - Angela has saved her countless times by her estimation. “Marry me,” she says instead, grinning as Angela laughs.

“Athena, could you put that on my to do list?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Athena says pleasantly. “Would you like to schedule a specific time for it?”

They share a smile. “Not just yet,” Angela answers, “but thank you.”

—

Fareeha wakes up disoriented by the white ceiling and the pain coursing through her limbs and the unfamiliar beeping in her ears.

What’s not unfamiliar is the face that soon appears in her vision: Angela, eyes tired and hair messy, looking like she hasn’t slept at all. “Fareeha?” she says softly. “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

She does, after a moment; she must be in the medical ward. The memories are slowly trickling back: the fight, the sniper, the fall. She winces on memory of the impact, and Angela glances at the monitors, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

Fareeha reaches out, careful of the IV in her hand, and touches Angela’s lip with her fingers, regaining Angela’s full attention. “Marry me,” she murmurs, and though her voice is hoarse her words are clear enough that Angela crumbles, leans forwards so that their foreheads touch, their breath mingling between them.

—

“Try to go to bed sometime reasonable tonight, habibti,” Fareeha says to the screen, glancing at the clock and doing a quick calculation of what time it must be where Angela is stationed. They’ve been apart for a month, each getting sent on separate missions, never overlapping. It’s torture.

“I will try,” Angela is promising. “I only have a few more things to do. I need to finish this surveillance report tonight; I can’t review the results of the experiment until tomorrow anyway, and I suppose the medical review can wait for another day.” She sighs as she finishes counting off the list, and Fareeha aches for her, knowing how much pressure Angela puts on herself. “That is everything, right Athena?”

“Almost, Doctor. You still need to marry Fareeha Amari.”

Fareeha chokes on her laughter at Athena’s smooth tone and Angela’s nonplussed expression, and then Angela is giggling alongside her, and the miles between them suddenly feel much shorter.

“Athena,” Fareeha finally manages, “is that something you could help her out with?”

“I hear a nice ring helps,” the AI offers. “And perhaps the right atmosphere?” Quiet violin music starts to play, and Fareeha grins at the soft flush on Angela’s cheeks and the silly smile on her lips. She’s looking much better compared to when their call stared.

“Marry me,” Angela says, and the music swells.

“Soon,” Fareeha promises.

—

It’s another month before Fareeha is stepping off the transport, finally back at base. She goes to her room, intending to change and leave her bag, but she’s one step inside the door when she’s ambushed from within. Angela must have heard the news of their arrival, must have waited here so that they could see each other as soon as possible while still having some privacy.

Whatever her cause or reasoning, Angela is holding her tightly, her head pressed against her shoulder until Fareeha tilts her chin up for a kiss.

“Marry me,” Angela says when they part, smiling, her hands framing Fareeha’s face.

And Fareeha thinks about all the things that phrase has meant between them: _Thank you_ and _I appreciate it_ and _I love you_ and _You are my home_. And she had plans. Plans that involved dinner reservations and maybe a sunset, with the sky shading to purple behind them. But there is no moment that could be more perfect than now, not with how full her heart is, not with how Angela feels in her arms. “Yes,” she says, the first time that either of them have actually answered such, and reaches into her bag to pull out the ring box that she’s carried with her for weeks. “Marry me,” she says, opening the box with one hand, bracing it against the side of her leg, unwilling to let Angela go completely.

“Yes,” Angela breathes before Fareeha’s even raised the box for her to see the ring. “Oh, yes.”

They’re both disheveled and the room is stuffy from being closed up, but Fareeha knows she was right as the ring slips over Angela’s finger and Angela pouts about having left Fareeha’s ring in her room.

It’s perfect.

—

She makes a point of waking up early the morning after their wedding; she made the arrangements ahead of time, so there’s no phone call, no knock at the door to alert her sleeping wife.

Wife. Fareeha grins. What a great word.

At the agreed upon time, she opens the door, just as a member of the hotel staff walks up carrying a tray. Fareeha takes it with thanks and a tip, then makes her way carefully back to the bedroom, placing the tray on the nightstand.

Preparations complete, she crawls back into bed and puts her arm around Angela, kissing her cheek as the woman stirs.

“So I heard there’s perks to being married,” she teases gently, and Angela blinks at her in sleepy confusion until the scent of coffee finally registers.

“I knew I should’ve married you sooner,” Angela murmurs back, hand seeking out Fareeha’s, tracing the ring around her finger as if making sure it’s still there. “Are there other perks that I should know about?”

Fareeha laughs, pulling her in for a kiss. “We have the rest of our lives to find out.”


	7. 7. Nighttime

Fareeha idly plays a few notes, following the music she can hear in her head. Doesn’t matter that she’s in the backseat of the van and that the guitar is awkward in this space - playing it helps cement it so that she doesn’t forget it later. It’s an awkwardness that she’s used to, anyway, considering how much time they spend moving from city to city.

After a few minutes, when Fareeha settles into a melody, Angela beside her starts to hum, sometimes following Fareeha’s lead, sometimes improvising a harmony. They share a smile when Angela switches to singing little nonsense words, feeling out the rhythm and how syllables fit around the music.

“You better not be writing a love song back there,” Hana calls from the passenger seat, “or I’m gonna vomit.”

“No throwing up in van,” Aleksandra commands sternly from the driver’s seat, glancing in the rearview mirror at the two in the back. “So no love songs.”

“No love songs,” Angela sings in return, smiling too widely. “I don’t need one; they’re all overdone.”

“Don’t want a love song,” Fareeha picks up as Aleks laughs and Hana rolls her eyes, though her hands start a beat against the dashboard. “Cause they’re never true; sayin’ all I need is you.”

“I need thunder; I need rain.” Angela’s watching her with a smirk, a challenge in her eyes. Fareeha doesn’t know if that’s for her previous line or their usual competition to see who can come up with the best rhyme in the shortest amount of time without stumbling.

“I need to love like a hurricane.” (“What does that even mean,” she hears Aleks mutter, but she doesn’t have time for complaints. The ball is still in her court.) “I need clear skies and sunlight.”

Angela has an advantage: her hands aren’t full of instrument, and so she can lean back, tilting her head so that the sun catches her blonde hair and forms a halo around her head. She knows very well what she’s doing, and Hana gives her a low whistle at the showmanship. “I need someone to make me ignite,” she croons in response. “Could it be you?” She draws out the last word, spiraling the note higher as Fareeha joins in underneath her.

“Could it be you?” Fareeha sings back, and Angela holds one pure tone until Fareeha runs a small flourish on the guitar before letting her hands settle the strings.

“Did you jerks just make it a love song anyway?” Hana demands, though she’s laughing as the two sheepishly smile.

“Is good though,” Aleks observes, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “We should turn into real song.”

—

The trouble with being celebrities (as minor as they are) is that they don’t always belong to themselves. They have interviews and photo shoots, fan events and filming for music videos. Hana, a merchandising genius as well as excellent drummer, makes posters from the latest single and sells them. She laughs when she tells Fareeha that her poster is outselling everyone else’s, and Fareeha doesn’t know how to feel about thousands of people having it on their wall.

(It’s one thing when it’s a band poster or an album cover; those she’s fine with, feels a surge of pride when she spots their merchandise out in the wild. But this is a poster of her alone, in compression shorts and a sports bra, her hands taped for boxing, playing her guitar with a look of fierce concentration. Which had been because the tape interfered with her dexterity, not that anyone else seemed to realize that.)

But it’s a blessing to be able to touch other people’s lives, one she never forgets when someone tells her that the music helped them through a hard time, or inspired them to get into music themselves. And there are so many that seem themselves in one of their group, who find them after shows and tell them how fierce and beautiful and unapologetic they’ve felt since they found them.

It’s worth the loss of privacy, Fareeha thinks.

Still, there’s a relief to it when the shows are over and the fans trickle home, when the stage is packed away and the adrenaline wears off. A relief to able to go home (or to the hotel) and collapse on the bed and just be in the short period of time before the next public appearance. Tours are the worst for this; being at home and spending more time creating the next album is much better, because the four of them are a family and no one cares if Hana shows up in pajamas or Angela doesn’t bother with makeup.

But these moments are still Fareeha’s favorite. Night and sleep and dawn are the times that belong to them and only them, and they only get better when she and Angela officially move in together. There are nights where they can’t sleep, chasing ideas and music around in the living room, playing and laughing and pushing each other further. Fareeha sits on the floor with her legs in front of her, leaning back on her hands as Angela strums her old acoustic, and she’s never felt so much at home. There are nights when Angela’s voice wavers and cracks after a third encore, and Fareeha puts her to bed and turns on the humidifier and fusses over each little thing until Angela rolls her eyes and pulls her into bed next to her.

There are the nights when they’re still flying on the highs and their clothes litter the floor of their living room and hallway before they tumble into bed, and there are the nights when they don’t make it to the bedroom at all.

The mornings are lovely as well, though there’s more routine there. They wake up, they refuse to get up, curled up with each other, all entwined limbs and quiet smiles. Sooner or later one of them decides that the morning breath is too much, or that coffee is absolutely necessary, and they reluctantly part. Only they come back together time and time again, Angela’s hands smoothing over Fareeha’s shoulders as she joins her at the table for breakfast, or Fareeha bumping Angela with a hip as they wash the dishes together.

Their phones buzz at the same time, but Angela is quicker to open the text from Hana:

_Turn on WFRG!_

Fareeha obediently switches the radio on, only to hear some very familiar music playing, the voice she loves floating from the speakers, asking, “Could it be you?”

“Oh, we’re gonna have to play that at so many shows now,” Fareeha laughs, and Angela giggles, threading her arms around Fareeha’s neck.

“Do you think Hana will forgive us?”

“Eventually. Maybe.” Fareeha grins, presses a kiss to Angela’s cheek before swaying with her gently, until they’re dancing in the living room in their bare feet. “It _is_ you, you know.”

“I know,” Angela says, lets it hang in the air until she has to laugh at Fareeha’s small frown. She kisses it away and puts her forehead against Fareeha’s. “It’s you.”


End file.
